


Special Death

by IBelieveInYesterday



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IBelieveInYesterday/pseuds/IBelieveInYesterday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The love of his forever is gone. Can he move on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Death

_Special Death_

A lone black Toyota Camry sat parked on the bank that led down to the cemetery. It was cold and the engine was off; time had forgotten about it so that a light, milky sheen of frost covered the windows. The young man that sat in the driver’s seat didn’t know how long he had been there; it could have been minutes and it could have been hours. He didn’t care. He wasn’t in any world where the present and future resided. For months now only his body had lived in the present, it was his body that acted and participated in the future; for months his mind had regressed into the safe haven that only the past could offer him.

And now it was his body telling him to unfold himself from the car, shut the door, and take the gravel pathway that led all visitors to their destinations. He could feel the crunch of the rocks beneath his foot, and he could hear the sorrowful wind cry, he could smell the fresh scent of snow that would soon fall, he could taste the depression of his surroundings on his tongue, and he could see the gray clouds that hovered over him and the hallowed ground. None of this, however, intercepted his mind; none of this brought him out of the scene that was rolling like film in his head.

It took a few moments for his body to arrive at the destination, but when his body finally came to a stop, it was as though his mind had been released from Past’s clutching fingers and the fog that had clouded his mind lifted.

Blinking, the young man looked around him, his brow furrowing. Where was he? What was he doing in a cemetery? And then his gaze shifted to the headstone in front of him and his knees buckled. A sob ripped through his lungs and shot through his chapped lips. The tears that ran down his cheek were warm and stuck to his cold cheeks, leaving trails behind as they slipped off his chin, falling to the ground or slipping under to crawl down his neck, into his coat’s collar, dampening the thin shirt that he wore beneath. His body, releasing its own sadness after months of having to take care of itself, shook.

When the man at last spoke, the first words that he could remember saying for a long time, his voice cracked and sounded disembodied, “Oh, God,” he moaned. “Oh, God.” He bit his lip hard, needing to focus on a physical pain that would force his mind to forget about the crumbling pieces of his heart. He drew blood, could taste the copper on the tip of his tongue, and it made him want to gag but it quieted his sobs and stilled his body from its shakes.

His hand shook as he pressed his fingers to his mouth. “Did I ever tell you what I first thought about you the night we met?” he asked, his voice quiet, barely audible, but did that really matter considering where he was? “I don’t think I did. I should have, though, because that’s the night that changed my whole life.”

“We were at that party, I don’t remember what it was for or who it was for—you probably would though. You remembered everything—but I know that I didn’t want to be there. I never wanted to go to parties. So I stood in the corner, and I came to realize as I watched the people in the crowded room, saw faces that I recognized and too many that I didn’t, that when you stand on the outside of things, tucked away so that people don’t bother you, you start to see things in a different perspective then everybody else. Everybody there—this is what I thought before I saw you—was there to gossip, talk, yammer, spreading the gossip to the next person so that it would turn into a wildfire.”

The cold started to seep into his bones as his wool coat began to soak up the snow that fell on his shoulders; the hem of the coat swayed at the back of his legs as the wind blew. His hair started to become damp and his fingers ached. He refused to move, however, and continued on.

“There was no way I was going to subject myself to those people by walking up to them and initiating a conversation. So I stayed in my corner, occasionally taking a sip of my drink, and as I plotted my escape—wondering how much longer I had to stay out of obligation—I saw you.

“God, you were gorgeous,” he huffed out a laugh and his ears were shocked by the sound. Laughs hadn’t been apart of the man’s life in more months than he wanted to remember. “You were so tall, impeccably dressed, and a slight five o’clock shadow that would have looked sloppy on anyone else contrasted sharply with your pale skin. Your hair, short but longer than mine, was slicked back.

Yet—yet your eyes, dark and warm and deep, were distant. It was then that I realized you and I were alike except that you were a better actor because you looked and acted like you actually wanted to be there.”

Somewhere in the distance, a crow caw-ed, setting the mood. He ignored it.

“And then, by some miracle, you caught my eye. I swear to God, though I didn’t realize it right away, I stopped breathing. You smiled at me, your brown eyes lighting up, and I couldn’t help but smile back at you because you demanded it, and you would accept nothing less. I looked away, but against my will, my eyes trailed back to you. And you were still watching me.

“The attraction, at least on my part, was instant. I wanted to leave. Then I realized that I didn’t want to leave by myself. I wanted to leave with you; I wanted you to leave with me. Together. You cocked your head to the side, and though I could have misread you, I knew I didn’t when I saw that you wanted me to come over to you. It was an invitation that I couldn’t deny. And so I started walking to you.”

The man rubbed at his red eyes with a fist, forcing himself to hold back the sob that was threatening to rip through his raw throat. “No one noticed me moving to you, or you waiting for me. Then, I was there and you were there. You extended your hand, and said,  
‘Hi.’ You told me your name. I liked it. It suited you. And then I took your hand and introduced myself, ‘I’m Chris.’ You repeated my name, and I had never heard anything as wonderful as my name rolling off your tongue. You caressed me with your tongue, and you had hardly even touched me. Then we stood in silence for a few moments. Not an uncomfortable silence that many people find themselves in when they’ve ran out of the few things that they have in common to talk about. I knew that we had only begun and we’d never run out of things to talk about. And we never did, did we?” he digressed for a moment but then he quickly continued on.

“Then you nodded your head indicating outside. ‘You want to get some air,’ you asked me. And I swear I could taste honey off your voice, and I wondered if I would become more intimate with that taste, I wondered if I would ever know that taste better than I did my own. I nodded my head. And I hoped that I would.

“You walked out the door. I followed. You walked right out of the party, and—here’s the cliché—right into my heart.”

Chris took in a ragged breath. “I love you so much. I thought we were going to have forever, but forever doesn’t exist does it? Only the present. But I’ve got to tell you . . . I hate the fucking present.”

Slowly—carefully—Chris pulled his hands out of the coat pockets, twisted at the ring on his left hand. “You promised me your forever. I wish your forever had been mine too.” He tugged at the ring, trying to work it free of his finger, but then he stopped. Was he ready to give this up? Was he ready to move on? He opened his mouth to ask the question aloud when he suddenly tasted honey on his tongue. Honey—in the dead of winter. And then he knew his answer.

Twisting it free from his finger, he stepped forward, and placed the ring on the base of the square lipped frame that encased the headstone. His fingers on their own accord hovered over the lettering of the name carved into the white marble stone. Touching the tip of his fingers to his lips, he then feathered his fingers across the letters, straightened, and backed away.

If anyone had saw him, they would have saw a man in a black wool coat that hit the back of his knees, hands in the coat’s pockets, with his hair slightly ruffled from the blowing of the light yet piercing sharp wind. His nose and cheeks were red, which could have been written off due to the cold, but one look at his blue eyes that were wet and red rimmed from shedding so many tears and the truth would be known. His shoulders hunched, he took one last look at the cold marble headstone before he turned and made his way back to the car.

Zachary John Quinto  
Beloved son, brother, husband, and father.  
 _If I Lay Here/If I Just Lay Here/Would You Lie with Me  
and Just Forget the World?_  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for my best friend who has a serious love for dark angst. Blame her for any feels that lean to the depressive side.
> 
> Also, the use of Snow Patrol's lyrics for Chasing Cars are used because she really likes the song and I knew they would get to her. I don't own the song, obviously.


End file.
